Inheritance
by LittleBounce
Summary: There are some elements of life pre-Grimm that Nick doesn't want back, like bad memories, overbearing women, or strangers bearing dodgy gifts... Some blasts from the past take a little time to get used to.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a gentle shortie (maybe three parts? Not much longer) while a longer story struggles its way from my brain to my laptop. Hope it's fun **

**X x X**

It doesn't matter. It's just wraps. I'll have Nick's bagels. Monroe relaxed his grip on Nick's kitchen table and opened the back door. He didn't _have_ to eat wraps for lunch. Ok, so he'd planned it, put it on the food list, and it was in the routine. Routines could be broken: the world would not fall around his shoulders in a rubbly mess.

_I will neither rise nor react to this juvenile stunt._

Monroe calmly pulled the top tortilla wrap from the packet and held it up to the light. The juvenile in question, shaking with silent laughter behind the Portland Post, had folded it into eight and nibbled strategically. This wrap, and every other one in the pack. And then resealed it, impeccably.

Nick carefully lowered his paper, fought for a straight face. "Everything alright?"

Monroe held up the tortilla snowflake. "I'm glad that you're feeling _so _much better."

Well, that was it, Nick was over the edge, and ill-concealed giggles turned into full, hands-on-face laughter. "Your….f...face!"

Monroe was unlikely to get any sense out of him for a good half hour. "I'm having your bagels," he reported mildly, and set about stealing ingredients. It was 1pm. Change of food, he could deal with. Disruptions to circadian rhythms? No. "Don't you have some people to arrest?"

Ha, that sobered him. Nick crammed the last bit of sandwich in his mouth and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. On good form, actually. Unmistakeably fitter.

No, he couldn't stay mad. For one thing, it was nice to see a little levity in the guy after recent nasty illnesses, and, well… laughter was a good palliative for heartbreak, even if it couldn't cure. And he'd been not low exactly, but unsettled since the letter arrived. The letter sat unopened and propped up by the empty fruit bowl, where it had been left the morning it arrived. All other post was open – even the bills. Monroe glanced over at it. He had no idea whether the handwriting was Kessler's, Kelly Burkhardt's or Juliette's, but it was indutibly a female hand. Unless, of course, it was penned by a teenage boy wesen with early-onset wankcramp, making it impossible to print letters narrower than half a centimetre, or higher than three mills. Not that he had any personal experience of this terrible affliction.

Monroe hunted for the chopping board, wondering if Juliette had been subjected to Nick's infantile humour. He hoped so, in a way. The boy in Nick was attractive. Really fucking irritating, but attractive. Besides, he was a guest in Nick's home, so he couldn't be crabby. It would just be wrong.

He sliced a bagel open, grabbed cheese, ketchup, mayonnaise and tomatoes from the fridge (there was something about staying at Nick's that made him go condiment crazy) and laid everything out on the counter. Ketchup first, both slices. All in order. He heard the shower roar into life upstairs, waited for Nick to start the terrible singing, then cheerfully turned on the hot water tap in the sink, cutting off Nick's supply.

Nick roared indignantly down the stairs. Monroe grinned and closed the tap. Nope, nothing wrong with a bit of levity.

He missed Rosie while she was away. Just for a few days, he knew, and nothing grim or Grimm, just on a writer's retreat to wind down a bit. A little bit of him was miffed – he was supposed to be her wind-down routine, and she'd never mentioned any remotest passion for writing. But, as Nick had gently pointed out, he needed his cello but if she sat next to him staring avidly through his whole three-hour practice, it would all get a little claustrophobic. So it was a break in her routine. No big deal – it's just that it meant another break in his routine, just as he'd gotten used to stretching his life across clocks _and_ spices. It was a good thing that he just found this change difficult. Difficult was better than physically impossible, but he remained a who-moved-my-cheese kinda guy. Staying with Nick, albeit with his predictable forms of offduty nutsiness, gave him some stability.

Monroe assembled salad, sliced the tomato. Actually, where was the cheese? He looked back on the counter, checked the fridge, returned to the chopping board and stared in disbelief at the cheeseless spot where he'd put the gouda slice, like, moments ago. On that spot he saw two scratchy, tiny feet, no more than three millimetres wide, scratching at the board for crumbs. He was aware of breathing really, really fast. His pulse hammered behind his teeth, behind his eyes. The feet scampered and stopped at the bottom of his sleeve, then the mouse shot up his sleeve and panic took over.

**X x X**

Monroe screamed his name from downstairs and the shock, along with the howling and crashing from downstairs had him out of the tub driving a towel across his face and hair to absorb the worst of the shampoo. He tucked the towel round his hips, snatched his gun off the bedside table and pelted down the stairs and over the couch. It was suddenly silent, too silent. He snapped round the corner into the kitchen and saw Monroe on the kitchen floor, rolled up on his side, shaking impossibly, his hand to his chest. The place was a tip – the back door hanging open.

"N-nick…"

Nick waved him back down to the floor. "Stay there, I'm coming back."

He burst out the back door but the intruder had gone, and waving his gun around did nothing more than scare a dozen starlings out of the tree in the yard. He ran back indoors to Monroe, who'd rolled onto his back, breathing raggedly, a red patch under his hand. He grabbed handfuls of shirt and ripped it open, but – like the pull-the-table-cloth act – Monroe's smacked back exactly where it was on his chest, his eyes wide with the dread of impending doom. Nick's pulse kicked up a notch as he struggled to see what the injury was.

"Let go of your chest, Eddie. I'm trying to help you here."

"Nick!"

"Move your hand, dammit!" Nick prised it away with difficulty and found… nothing underneath. Nothing. No bullet, no arrow… no other…..deadly thing. Just sticky chest hair. Thank GOD. He gave a weird, slightly hysterical laugh and sunk back on his heels, sweating hard under the soap.

Monroe pointed towards the window with his clean hand, still looking terrorised. "S-sink!"

Nick frowned, armed himself again. "Sink?" What the hell was small enough to fit in the sink?

"G-gun might… be overkill, but…"

Nick staggered over, still feeling the effects of an extra bucket of adrenaline injected straight into his system. In the plughole sat the world's smallest mouse, chest hair in one paw, cheese in the other. About 90% of him felt really fucking… unimpressed. "Right. Mouse in the sink."

It tried to stare him down and he was in no mood for it. He smacked the gun down on the counter and snatched the mouse out, trapping it between his palms with the tiny head poking cheekily out between his thumbs. Then he escorted it firmly outside, let it go, and slammed back into the kitchen, shutting it out.

Monroe looked really sheepish as he clambered shakily to his feet and Nick had enough experience of seeing genuine fear to know terror when he saw it. So he knew it wasn't a prank, but still… it would've been nice if Eddie's first words when able to speak had been 'I'm not hurt', or 'I'm not dying' or reassuring variations on that theme, rather than directions towards the deadly creature in the sink. Life without his friends…He found himself filling up, unexpectedly, exhaled noisily and pinched the bridge of his nose to get himself together.

"Nick… I'm really sorry about the mess, I-"

"I don't care about the mess! You just scared the _shit_ out of me! What's that red crap on your shirt?"

"Ketchup. Sorry, I was holding my bagel when it… when it went up my sleeve. I panicked."

"I noticed! Christ!" Nick headed back for the stairs, steaming.

"Where are you going?"

Dumbass question! Nick spun round and indicated his half-showered form. "I'm going to rinse off, if that's ok with you? Or is there something you need me for right now that requires me to be slippery?"

Monroe quailed slightly against the kitchen counter. "Uh… no… I'm good. You go …. Rinse."

"Good!" Nick stormed into the bathroom, slammed his towel into the corner and got back in the shower. It took him about ten minutes to cool down, even under freezing water.

X x X

Monroe cleared up as quietly and quickly as possible, trying to redeem himself and forget about the fact that he was at least 19 minutes behind schedule already with his lunch. His hands still shook embarrassingly as he put stuff away and swept up broken glass. Half the shock was the mouse, but the other half, Nick's reaction. He'd moved like a man possessed. Yeah, he was certainly stronger and fitter but the anger... It was the letter. Had to be the letter. Apart from the unfortunate incidence of their first meeting, he'd _never_ seen Nick flip out like that. Did Nick know that his eyes went silver when he was angry? It was unlikely Nick practiced psyching out wesen in the mirror so, probably not. But it was like looking into the heart of an animal with something far more powerful lying less than a few tissue layers beneath Nick's surface, scowling and ready to get out. All that power, packaged up in an amiable, gentle soul who wouldn't even chuck a mouse of the house by its tail.

He peeled off his shirt and stuck it in the washing machine, relieved to see that Nick believed in the power of Vanish stain release. He stuck the dial on 30 – ketchup was hell on flannel – and went hunting for his buttons.

He was still grovelling around on the floor when Nick trotted down the stairs in jeans, a long-sleeve teeshirt, and looking – thank God – a lot more like his usual self. He actually felt a little irritated by Nick's easy ability to swing from incandescent wrath to a state of relative omm.

"Uh, Monroe – sorry about…losing it a bit. I genuinely thought you were badly hurt. It was a shock."

Monroe gave the soft-spoken Grimm an awkward smile and flattened himself on the floor so he could see under the cabinets. "I'm sorry too, really. Do you have a torch?"

"What are you doing?" Nick was holstering and getting his wallet together. No motions, apparently, to go anywhere near the letter before leaving for work.

"I'm trying to find my buttons."

"What happened to your buttons?"

"You did, Nick! You have a … purposeful way of disrobing a guy that turns buttons into land-to-air missiles. Has no one ever mentioned this to you?"

"I can't say they have, actually." Oh crap, he was sounding annoyed again, just as the ice was breaking… "No one has _ever_ turned round to me in the aftermath of a cardiac arrest or a shooting or whatever and said 'Good god man, that was purposeful disrobing!'"

"Ok, ok. I wasn't complaining. I just want them back. They're the only ones that go with that shirt."

"Can't you get other purple buttons?"

"No! They were _burgundy_! Purple would look odd."

"O-kay." Nick headed for the door. "Don't hesitate to call me at the precinct if you need emergency button retrieval."

Right, that was it. Monroe got to his feet and intercepted Nick before he got to the door. "What is wrong with you? Apart from the scare?"

"I'm fine, I just got to go—"

"You're not fine! You've been on an emotional rollercoaster since that—" he pointed at the envelope – "arrived, and you're going nowhere till you open it!"

"It's Marie's handwriting," Nick offered suddenly. "I'm not sure if I'm ready to open it."

"Ok. Call Hank, tell him you'll be a half hour late – it's not like you never do overtime – and we'll open the letter."

Nick gave him a sideways look. "It may be a little personal."

"You just ripped my clothes off while half naked – how much more personal do you want to get?"

Nick smiled reluctantly. "Alright. Hang on…."

And naturally Hank had no problem with the extra half hour. They sat down at the kitchen table and stared at it for a few minutes like it was going to get up and walk to one of them. Eventually, Monroe reached for it. "Want me to open?"

"Yeah." Nick took a deep breath. "You open, I'll read."

"You'd _better_ read," Monroe muttered and found a knife to slice the envelope carefully. He saw, before passing it over, the cursive script on the top wad of the cream, folded buff and groaned inwardly.

_Last will and testament of Marie Helene Kessler_


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for reviewing guys – I'm just having a little fun looking at Nick and Monroe's lives before they collided as Grimm and Wesen. They can't have dropped out of the clear blue sky! One more part after this, I think! Multiple thanks to General Zargon for guiding me to (and through) the legal convo with Frank Rabe, tee hee. Thanks!**

**X x X**

"Wherein my sole living dependent remains Nicholas David Burkhardt, I do bequeath the following artefacts without reservation as indicated in paragraphs c to e. Bequests as laid out in paras a and b, excepting conditions in paras– fuck this." Nick squeezed his eyes shut against the oncoming migraine and handed the wad of paper back to Monroe. "Would you mind giving me the reader's digest version?"

"Me? What makes you think I'm any good at this stuff?"

"Well…you're pretty good at most stuff. Please?" Migraine incoming. T minus ten till landing. "I've got a feeling I know what's in there, and…"

"Ok. Just give me a second while I get my cliff notes hat on."

Nick made them both a coffee while Monroe paced the kitchen, reading through, his face alternately startled and disapproving. He mustn't rush him. And he mustn't rush himself. He'd only taken in two key pieces of information – right at the bottom of the first page: the date, 1995; the executor of his will – Kelly Marie Burkhardt. So Marie knew his mom was still alive when she wrote the will. Well, of course she _knew_, but it was a hard concrete post of a reminder that he didn't necessarily need his face smashed against.

He realised Monroe had gone really quiet and had returned to the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Worried about the chronological details? Nick put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I've noted the date of the will, if you're worried about breaking that piece of news."

Monroe patted his hand briefly and turned in his seat, meeting his eyes gravely. "Now, you've had a…pensive few days, but I need to be talking to _normal_ Nick right now, ok? This is not a nice document. It was written by women with little apparent consideration for your mental health and I do not want you to go Grimm on me."

Nick took a deep breath. "Want me to look out the window?"

"Would you mind? You're a bit less threatening from the rear."

Nick stared out into the back yard and slurped down his coffee while it was still scalding. "Go on."

"Ok, to be honest, I haven't decided whether this completely sucks, or whether it totally blows. But – the long and the short of it is that, apart from a few sundry items inherited without conditions, you get €180,000 on your 35th birthday, providing you continue to live an isolated existence up to that point without partners or dependents."

Nick nearly took his coffee down the wrong way. "I get money if I remain lonely and single and, presumably, devoted to the cause of murdering people?"

"That's the bit that sucks."

Nick saw his aunt in the doorway looking sternly at him, telling that Juliette was lovely – under any other conditions, she'd be happy for him. But that he had to let Juliette go. Was that meant to be an early hint? Cause he couldn't help feeling that life as a Grimm had pretty much rendered him solo anyway. Juliette's departure had been quiet, peaceful, amicable. They'd rebuilt things up to a certain point, him answering her questions as honestly as possible, her making more sense of the weirdness that surrounded their recent history.

There was no blame or horror on either side. But it wasn't going to work. She couldn't be expected to keep feeling apologetic about not holding him important enough to prevent him from being wiped from her memory, and he couldn't keep his frustration to himself at not being able to turn back the clock and make her part of things while he still had the chance. More than anything else, he couldn't handle that sudden frightened look she'd give him, just after he'd thought he'd said something completely normal, maybe just getting annoyed about some ass he'd had to handle during the day. He could not have Juliette being frightened of him.

So she lived with vet friends with spare rooms, and he spent nights alone, longing for her to walk in, full of stories about badly behaved animals, or for her to ambush him in the night with freezing cold heat-seeking feet. And unless he sufficiently recovered from losing Juliette and hooked up with a female Grimm or Wesen in the next three years… well the money would be his.

What completely screwed with his head was the fact that clearly something was going to change when he was 35 – 3 years and 2 months away – and neither his aunt nor his mother saw fit to give him any warning whatsoever as to the direction they expected his life to take. The migraine landed with an audible thump and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear any more, for now.

"You did hear the bit about the 180k euros, didn't you? That's..uh… about $234,000 dollars."

To share it with whom? Nick finished his coffee. "What's the part that blows?"

"Uh… you get some other stuff, that comes without conditions, but none of it sounds radically appealing. The 'non-propellant vehicle containing numerous documents of historical significance….' Well, that'd be the trailer. She'd let you find out about that in a will? Jesus. Oh yeah, and you get a copy of WB Yeats' complete poems, first edition. It's a good job you're a little way from the time of death now. Reading that while in the depths of despair – not good. Maybe sell it."

"What else?"

"A 1971 tugboat – Heart of the Lake. Location and documents specified at Annex A. Oh hell – sorry, there is sort of a condition on this one. It says 'cannot be re-sold.' Sorry about that. I was just thinking you could ditch it, make a profit, and rebuild the fence round your yard. Or get a new car, or something."

Nick knuckled his eyes dry while Monroe wasn't looking. Heart of the Lake. He'd last seen his dad on the back of that boat, the morning before the Rhinebeck car explosion. He'd been on 'school camp'. They'd been out exterminating, probably. That…. fucking boat. Quite a few of the weekends of the end of his life with his parents had been taken up with their outings on that….

"Nick?"

He felt his temper rising and determined to get out of the kitchen before he took it out on Monroe. He swallowed hard and faked an evidently really unconvincing smile at his friend as he headed for the door. "Thanks for doing that. I appreciate it."

"Where are you going?"

"To work."

"Nick, don't drive. Let me take you in. Nick…!"

He heard Monroe add 'oh….crap' as he almost reached the back gate and couldn't even manage his customary wave at the nonagenarian twins who apparently lived on the swing seat under their rear awning and waved vigorously at him every time he left the house. He had to get to work. And, until later at least, forget about the goddamned boat.

**X x X**

Monroe ran out after Nick but got a faceful of exhaust that he doubted would be particularly good for his pores. Or his paws, come to that. It took him a few minutes of fumbling with his new mobile – half touch-screen, half standard keyboard – to get hold of the Portland operating bank and get himself put through to the precinct: Det. N Burkhardt's number. He made a mental note of the extension to add to his speed dial. He got through to Det. Griffin, which was as good as he could hope for and discreetly left word that Nick was on his way in by car but more than a little upset, so if Hank could keep an eye out for traffic news…. Great.

"You're quite the mother hen, aren't you?"

Monroe snarled at the smirk coming down over the line. "I'm the cock, I think you'll find. My girlfriend is the mother hen."

"I thought your girlfriend had hens for breakfast?"

"Ha. Everyone's a comedian. Anyway, he's feeling low. Keep an eye out, please."

There was a short pause. "It wasn't meant as an insult. Everyone needs a few mother hens in their lives. I wouldn't have married my first two wives if I'd had clucky people in the background yelling 'no, don't do it!' So, call here any time you need to. If it concerns Nick. Ok?"

"Thanks." He'd just popped his mobile away when a creaky voice startled him from somewhere in the regions of his lower ribs. It was one of the ladies that lived opposite, he thought. Constantly on the porch. Constantly drinking Mimosas in the twilight.

"I couldn't help noticing young Nicholas erupting urgently from the house. Is everything ok?"

Monroe didn't particularly want to picture young Nicholas erupting anywhere. "Uh… having a hard time, but he's fine. Thanks."

"We were so sad when his lovely girlfriend moved away. She used to make us wonderful casseroles."

Good – so, at least 'they' didn't have he and Nick paired up in their minds, at least. Made a pleasant change. Monroe smiled encouragingly. "They're still in touch. I'll pass on your good wishes."

"Has he been working out?"

The unexpectedness of this stopped him in his tracks and he turned at Nick's gate, boggling. "Come again?"

"Has he been working out? We couldn't help but notice – there's not much hiding room when someone's wearing a towel – but it happens so often. A girl leaves, a guy bulks himself up—"

"Uh… he's been trying to get fitter…" why was he even entertaining this conversation?"

"Oh we've certainly noticed that! All those early morning runs in his little shorts!"

Monroe felt vaguely ill. What was he supposed to do? Suggest Nick look them up in Great-grandmother-figures monthly? "Was there a _particular_ message you wanted me to pass on?"

"Tell him not to bother going for that whole jealousy nonsense, but go visit that nice Juliette while he's wearing his little shorts, maybe after a run or something, if he wants to be subtle. You know, while his teeshirt's glued to him and all that. If that doesn't fix things, I don't know what will. In the meantime, we'll keep an eye out for him." The old lady shuffled off, apparently satisfied with her contribution to neighbourhood watch. Monroe wrestled with the mental image of Nick having more than one randy ancient admirer and decided that on balance, he'd keep this particular conversation to himself. Poor guy had enough on his plate.

Then Rosie rang.

X x X

Nick went through the motions of the morning on autopilot. Hank seemed pleased to see him get in but throughout the morning shot him silent, brotherly concerned looks as he knocked his coffee over, kicked the shit out of the fax machine, and finally made a total stuff-up of the lunchtime sandwich run. It would have been easier if it had been a mass-crime day. The genuine need to apply his brain to an assault case or worse would've distracted him properly. Endless paperwork… no. It just reminded him of the paperwork he had yet to read. A few minutes after getting back from the sandwich run, Renard called him into the office.

It appeared that he'd neglected to order any filling for the Captain's Foccacia sub, among other minor omissions.

"I _like _mayonnaise, Burkhardt, don't get me wrong, but… something's clearly on your mind. Personal stuff? Work stuff?"

Nick still wasn't sure about Renard's role in his life beyond precinct Captain. He seemed protective, amiable at times, always daunting – but evasive, too. But he also took an interest, from a distance, so he gave him the outline of what upset him the most, leaving out the details that he couldn't possibly explain. He didn't want to keep the boat. But apparently couldn't sell it. Evasive or not, the guy seemed genuinely sympathetic.

"One thing strikes me in all this – your aunt described you as her last living dependent. Right?"

That was a point. He hadn't really thought about that.

"Well, to my mind, and I'm sure in the mind of the executor of Ms Kessler's will, you're no-one's dependent any more. So maybe… it's as simple as you getting legal advice. See what is inveigled with the concept of being a dependent, and see what clauses still apply to you. Then try to get hold of the executor."

Nick let out a huge sigh of relief. It was good just to have something practical to do. Getting hold of the executor, busy distributing the Zakynthos coins halfway round eastern Europe, may be more difficult. And he wasn't sure he particularly wanted to, particularly given his urgent desire to get rid of the boat. Having a next step gave him a path. It was wandering into the mud that threw him. "Thanks. That's actually really helpful."

"Good." Renard handed his empty sandwich back. "Now, please go order _exactly_ what's on this piece of paper, then do me a favour - track down purchases on this serial number."

"What's that?"

"All that I can remember of my credit card, while we're sharing the personals." Renard flushed. "I had my wallet taken at a bodega this morning. You don't need to repeat that to anyone."

**X x X**

Nick took to the retrieval of Renard's credit card like a man possessed and by six in the evening, had finally sent a uniform to the branch at Portland National at Goose Hollow to retrieve CCTV footage of the criminal withdrawing cash at 11:05. It was good to have something useful to do and he was grateful to the Captain for keeping him occupied. And now the office was almost deserted apart from Wu, struggling back and forth with Hank's bodega burglary boxfiles, and Hank himself, coolly quaffing coffee as if it were tepid and not only just removed from the inhouse volcano that went by the tame name 'percolator'. Nick had his head in the white pages, looking for a lawyer that didn't claim to be able to solve the earth for $56 an hour. He felt Hank's eyes on him.

"You going to tell me what's up?"

Nick bounced his forehead lightly on the useless listings. "I need a lawyer."

"You in the shit for something?"

"No…I just need advice."

"Well if you just need advice, we know way too many lawyers. Can't move around here for tripping over the bastards."

Nick sat, trying to ignore the pop of muscles as he stretched slowly. "I want someone who doesn't start every conversation with 'you will release my client'."

"Fair enough." Hank pondered on this, sipped, failed to wince. "Is this a personal thing, or a… _thing_ thing?"

"Good question. A bit of both, I think."

"Well, good luck with that. I'll ask around. If I think of someone decent, or if someone decent gets mentioned to me, I'll text you the details."

Nick was surprised as Hank downed the rest of his coffee and got ready to go, locking up his pedestal, locking down his PC. His partner was the perennial overworker. "You off?"

"Can't do much more today. Besides, I sort of made a pledge to myself. If I return to work here, which I have, it's not going to take over my entire life. Ok, so maybe about 75% of it, but there's got to be room for movement. So, I'm moving."

Wu slammed the last boxfile on Hank's desk and stared agape as the bigger guy pulled on his jacket, pocketed weapon and badge and shuffled towards the exit. "Please don't tell me you're now going?"

Hank turned. "Been here since half seven! What's your problem?"

"My problem is that these either need to be in lock up, from which I have just painstakingly removed them for you, or they need to be under constant observation. If you're going home now, _after_ I've removed them from lock-up…"

"You should've said! I coulda told you I wouldn't be looking at them till the morning!"

Wu looked around wildly as if trying to spot smaller than Hank to smack.

"Later guys, don't make it too late." And Hank was gone, round the corner, living up to his relaxed new lifestyle. Wu was living up to Hank's previous stressed lifestyle, so Nick helped him lump all the crates in the stock-cupboard, which at least had a lock and didn't compromise the chain of evidence.

"This is the kind of thing that makes me miss Detective Vergeer."

Nick grinned. Jan worked _here_? His first partner in Gresham PD? "The big guy? Yan 'you say it _fver-gk-ay-er_' Vergeer?"

Wu nodded vigorously. "He was stiff on his pronunciation but he had a nice little line in OCD which meant he carried _all _his files, and I mean three boxes at a time, from storage to his desk, with me just walking along as escort. You've got to love a detective like that."

Nick did not miss the purposeful glare. "Ok, I'll help out more with the box-carrying."

"Please do. I'll be cross-referencing Hank's ignored boxes if you need me."

Nick returned to his desk, contemplating this change in Hank. The break at his brother's seemed to have done him some good. He didn't get past three months' sabbatical but apparently, a guy could have too much crayfish, and there was no animosity with Renard for the foreshortened break. What had he called his situation? "A _thing _thing." Nick smiled as he straightened his partner's chaotic desk out. Hank was still completely bewildered by how the whole idea of wesen was even possible but he seemed slowly accepting of Nick's dual role in peacekeeping and enforcement in equal measure among those who didn't fit the 'normal' human blueprint. There was still that veneer of discomfort, and Nick knew it had taken Hank many nights of alternate nightmares and drunkenness to get his head around what his god-daughter looked like under the prom-dress cutesiness, but he was getting there. And, more importantly, learning to read the silent looks that Nick shot him that said 'this is a _thing_ thing – want me to take this from here?'

And more often than not, Hank did. But he was always there, back on form, ready for the catch-up before the double-interrogation required of them. God knows what he'd have made of some of his earlier choices of—

Rabe. Of course! Frank Rabe!

Nick shoved his coffee out the way and logged into the case database to find the Jagerbar lawyer's contact details. It was nearly half after six…. No mobile number. Would he still be in the office? Hell – he'd try it anyway. Nick dialled, putting the phone on speaker while he hunted for the fat will envelope in his bag. In the background, poor Wu grunted back and forth with boxfiles for Detective Hanna, who to his knowledge, had never lifted more than a donut if he could get away with it. His fingers closed round the thick vellum envelope just as Rabe answered, sounding tired and bored.

"Mr Rabe? Good evening, I'm sorry to call so late but I was hoping to ask you some questions about— "

He heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line, a thud, a clatter, and barely muffled swearing.

"Mr Rabe?"

"Here!" Rabe's voice sounded vaguely strangled.

"You ok?"

"How are you _doing_ that?"

Nick sat slowly, unfolding the will. "Doing what?"

"Are you calling from work?"

"Uh… yeah, but—"

"So you're calling from the precinct! You're eight miles away! _How can you be curling my fur from there?_"

Wu turned curiously on his way back from the box trolley and Nick suddenly remembered that Rabe was still on speaker. He propelled his seat forward and snatched up the receiver.

"What did you say I was doing?"

"You're doing the eyes! You're doing the silver eyes _down the goddamn phone!"_

"I do not have silver eyes!"

Suddenly Wu was in his face, hands on his shoulders, staring at him intently from about four inches away. "I tend to agree. They're grey around the outside, but with navy-blue flecks of deep… annoyance towards the pupil."

Nick slapped his hand over the receiver. "Wu – personal call. Do you mind?"

"Is that annoyance meant for me?"

"Partially."

"I'm totally out of your face, dude." The sergeant went, but Nick could still see the blue lapel lurking out the corner past the wall opposite the guys' restroom. He was earwigging. For God's sake. He went back to his call. "You still there?"

"Uh…yeah."

"Right, I've received a will and I need some advice, if that's ok. What's your hourly rate?"

"Why me?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "There's no other lawyer I can think of that might get to grips with the singular….complications of this particular variety of probate."

"Grimm probate?"

"Yes."

There was a long sigh at the other end of the line. "Ok, so summarise."

Nick did, trying not to let his voice rise or fall significantly at the point at which he listed the Heart of the Lake as one of the bequests. "It says I can't sell it on, but I'm thinking that this might be irrelevant if I'm no longer a dependent of Marie Kessler. Your views?"

If Rabe's long sighs were long, his pauses were eternal. Eventually: "Look, in the nicest possible way, your aunt and your parents were known for … annexing property rather than acquiring it in a fair and reasonable way. Well, your mom and your aunt – not so much your dad. So if I were you, I'd check boat documents first, see how long it was owned by Ms Kessler, or at least, how long since it was owned by someone else. Check for any theft recordings against it. If it all looks clean, call me tomorrow and we can discuss the small print. But for what it's worth, you're not a dependent, no."

"Does that apply to the money?"

"No, that one's tied up in clauses. You don't get your inheritance unless you're living like a hermit. Sorry. But your aunt… not one of this life's warm, loving women."

Nick nearly agreed, but loyalty took over. "She brought me up."

"I think, Mr Burkhardt, that evidence suggests you brought _yourself_ up. But, like I said, check the plates – call me tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi all – thanks for the reviews! I sincerely do appreciate them, and it's really nice to see what works for people. I'm glad the phone conversation with Rabe went down so well, tee hee. Had fun with that. More on the silverness a bit later! Was going to be this chapter, but I've now learnt not to predict stuff so firmly. Lol.**

**X x X**

Nick didn't sit on the call but went through all the papers, did the checks against the boat plates. It really did belong to his aunt. Damn. A tiny part of him hoped that he could pass it on to Portland PD as a suspiciously acquired asset, but it wasn't to be. He faxed the entire document through to Rabe's office, gave it a half hour to get through, then called the Jagerbar lawyer again. Rabe sounded even less delighted to hear from him than he had been an hour ago. So he got to the point.

"What's involved in contesting a will?"

"Ideally, you need to be on the same side as the executor. Of course, you can go it alone, but it can run into the thousands. You may find that it costs more to win the right to sell the boat than you get from… well, selling the boat."

"Can I sink it? Destroy it, or whatever?"

"Wow, you really don't want it, do you? Unfortunately, keeping it close to hand appears very much part of the conditions of inheriting the monetary aspect of your bequests. I would seriously think twice about damaging it in any way."

Nick sighed. He knew it couldn't be that easy. "Ok, thanks. Look, I'll make an appointment for any further stuff. I was just in a tight spot."

"No problems."

Rabe rang off and Nick was left chewing the bottom of his pen into splinters. He sent off two texts – a quick one to Monroe, telling him not to wait up. Not that he would. The second, a brief SOS to his mom. Short and simple: 'Marie's will raises more questions than answers. Pls call. N xx'

He checked out the address of the boat in Annex A: Berth 14, Marine 2, MacQuarrie Docks, Pilot Rock, jogged down to his car and flung his jacket into the back. It took a moment to programme the zipcode into the satnav and then he headed out into the dark, wondering what the hell he was playing at. Would he even be able to see it, let alone recognise it? He was still half inclined to fire holes down the length of the whole damn thing but as he had no idea what the future held, there was no good to be gained from blowing €180k out of the water just yet. Besides, he had to see for himself whether the sight of the old tug, if any of the boats in the dock, still had the same effect on him. If he could just sit and look at it without that old fear pouring back, maybe he could make some kind of use of it.

"Turn LEFT at the next junction. Bear LEFT now."

Nick rolled his eyes at the bossy female satnav voice. He couldn't turn it down – something broke a few weeks ago and ever since, it had been like driving with a nightmare female relative. In some ways, it reminded him of early days of driving lessons with Aunt Marie, only she'd added additional advice on indicating, undertaking and the importance of finding a way to keep his hair out of his face.

He took the exit as ordered and thundered through the darkness, barely keeping his side of the lane. The boat meant snapshots. Drowning. Losing. He could still see his dad on the back of the Heart of the Lake, letting slack out and looking like a slapped puppy as his mom took the helm to guide the boat out into the waterways for their 'date weekends'.

He'd waved them off, then Aunt Marie had funnelled him off to school camp. Three days in the boondocks, doing watersports and generally getting more mud on him than existed in most of Oregon – only he hadn't lasted the three days.

Nick blinked memories out of his eyes, fighting to keep his lane, but it was too dark. He slowed down a little, not having seen a car pass him in the last ten minutes.

Day two of camp: in a canoe with two other kids from the next grade up, who wouldn't stop rocking it. Two grades up, and about forty pounds heavier each. And the kid just in front decided to grab him by the arm and pitch him into the water. Just because. He'd been washed nearly a half mile downstream before he managed to grab hold of a branch, pull himself towards the embankment and got stuck there for an hour: too weak to get out or shout – too determined to miss out on the chance to recover from the predicted hypothermia and subsequently kick six varieties of crap out of the prankster when he finally did get back on terra firma. The longest hour of his life, with teachers pounding up and down the edge of the creek yelling his name, him too cold to answer, and after he'd been passed for the third time – his hand not seen through the rushes – he hauled himself out on his elbows and lay on the embankment, shuddering. Ironically, it was the kid that pitched him out that found him. And redeemed himself fractionally by trying to give him his coat.

Aunt Marie had arrived quietly that evening, after all attempts at contacting his parents, of course, failed. Miss White, who'd sat with him for four hours while they waited for the heated IV to kick in, told his aunt how strong he'd been. Marie was a little vacant, understandably. She didn't echo his teacher's comments, take his hand or make him feel any warmer. She just sat next to his bed and told him that now he had to be even stronger, because there had been a car accident. And all Nick could see was the back of the Heart of the Lake, and his dad looking miserable.

He checked his mirrors and pulled over violently before he had an accident.

"You have NOT reached your destination."

"Fuck off."

"Continue on the—"

Nick silenced the mechanical bitch with a boot to the dashboard and sat still, breathing hard for a moment. Then his phone rang. Unknown number. He picked up anyway.

"What's wrong?"

He blinked. "I got the will—"

"Yeah, I got that much from your text. I sent it from Washington days ago. Have you found the boat?"

"You don't think a covering note might have helped? Something along the lines of 'this may come as a shock, we'll talk soon'?"

"I don't have much time. Have you found the boat?"

"Not yet." He chose not to point out that he was on the way in case it committed him to something.

"Well you've got the dock number. Berth 14 is on a mini-island so you'll need someone to take you across. Do it in the daytime."

"Right." Nick cleared his throat. Well, that was his cast iron excuse for turning round and going home again. "What is the significance of me turning 35?"

"Look, the book's on the boat, you just need to get to it. Second box on the left at the rear under the life jac—"

"What book?"

"There's only one! Find it read it through. Then maybe you'll understand the money clause."

This was just getting beyond frustrating. Nick fought to keep his voice calm but could feel the plastic cover on his phone creaking in his palm. "Look, you have always done this – cutting me dead when I'm asking you for something. I've spent a year of my life watching the most important things get turned upside down and trying to make sense of things through heirlooms. I want _you _to explain to me why it's so desperately important to you all that I live nearly half my active life as a miserable bastard!"

"Nicky…"

"DON'T 'NICKY' ME! I'm not the kid you needed to leave behind on family weekends!"

"Nick I'm sorry, I really am. But I can't tell you on the phone. Too long, too difficult, too likely to be traced by the verrat… remember?"

Of course, she was in hiding. He felt dumb for even texting her. He should've known – 'this number is for emergencies only'. Same old, same old. "Right. I'll find it, I'll read it. Bye."

"Are you crying?"

"No." He was pleased to suck back the catch in his voice in time.

"Well, lay low for a little while. Don't let anyone see you like that. The only vulnerable Grimm is one with a broken spirit, as your dad found. I'll write. Ok?" She hung up.

Nick swung the car round and headed back for the I5. Whatever was in that book, he wasn't going to look at it alone. Not with this raging urge to get drunk welling up inside him. He didn't particularly like the idea of his father having a broken spirit, for one thing.

**X x X**

He made it back to West Portland in good time, having shoved ripped pieces of teeshirt into his ears to dull the sound of the savbitch (who had sadly survived her kick) lecturing him on speed limits in the locality and his failure to take her directions. What would a first edition copy of WB Yeats be worth? Might be worth his while googling it. It might bring in enough for a new satnav. A silent one.

The lights were off in the house as he pulled in. He stamped his way up to the porch and fumbled for keys. Not in jeans, not in jacket… damn. Back to the car… not in footwell… He popped open the boot and it was with enormous relief that he saw the reflection of the streetlight catching on the keyring. It was almost hidden under his high-vis. He'd chucked his jacket in with some force before setting off.

A light touch on the small of his back propelled into the air and he was lucky not to crack his head on the boot. Esther stood right behind him, a Tupperware box clutched under her arm.

"Are you quite alright, dear?"

"Yeah – you just made me jump! God, you're worse than a ninja. I'm going to have to get you a cowbell or something."

The very elderly lady peered up at him speculatively. "You're very late. Not throwing yourself into work too hard, are you? It will not help you forget your young lady."

Ow. "I've been doing that a little. But not this evening in particular. Was there… something I could help you with?"

"Oh no dear, other way round, I hope. I hate to see a young man battle away on his own." She presented the box. "Some dinner. Boeuf Bourginonne, five minutes in the microwave at 750 watts. Edith made it, so you might want to put the shallots to one side. Serve with jacket potato. Give you lots of energy for your runs."

"Wow… thanks." He took the box. He was going to skip dinner, or make bagels, but this was… he felt himself filling up again –_GET A GRIP, BURKHARDT! – _and bent down almost half his height to kiss his neighbour on the cheek. She giggled like a teenaged maushertz, which was rather unsettling. "It's really nice of you. Seriously. Look, I'm going to head in. If you need me to pick any stuff up for you, drop a note through my door, ok?"

"Thank you, young Nicholas. You keep that running up. You've got the ass for it."

She'd shuffled off before he'd quite registered what she'd said and found himself dashing into the house almost side-on to keep his ass to himself. Weird! But still – people could be kind. He stripped his jacket off, stuck the box in the microwave – hastily retrieving it to remove the foil from the potato – then restarted for five minutes. It was just gone midnight with _all _the lights off, which was unusual. He would've called up the stairs, but if Monroe was asleep, he'd probably not appreciate being woken just so he could confirm that he had, indeed, been sleeping.

Then he saw the note propped up against the spice rack and took it down in some confusion. Where there? Why not put it somewhere he was likely to look, like on the tv remote, the fridge, on the table, even?

_Nick_

_Rosie's retreat ended early, or at least she ended it early for herself, so I'm back over at the shop. Thanks for the bed. Much appreciated._

_After this morning's gloom manifesto, I'm guessing you need some time to yourself, but if you need anything, I'm just on the line. Ok?_

_M_

_Ps – have replaced your bagels even though you don't deserve it, you wrap-wrecking swine._

Nick chuckled and sauntered over to the microwave as it pinged. His lovely dinner was a gungy, anhydrous mess at the bottom of the tub, the potato a husk of its former solid self. What the hell…? Five minutes, she'd said, in a 750 watt - 1000 watts, the microwave sticker said. He smacked his forehead with his palm and tried to remember Juliette's rescue remedy for most of the stuff he burned whenever it was his turn to get some food on the table. He'd never really paid attention. It was almost like they had a standing agreement: he did all the electric, heavy, brick-and-mortar stuff and the cooking twice a week. She would allow him to pretend to cook, then silently, sweetly, serve something completely different.

He peered into the tub. Maybe a little water… rejuvenate the gravy a bit. He stuck it under the hot tap and got a few teaspoons in, then a few cups-worth as the doorbell made him jump, tap in hand. Doorbell at midnight? Couldn't be good. Nick went to answer in case one of the ladies opposite found herself locked out or the precinct needed him, or…

"Monroe?"

His friend stood wild-eyed and fully woged in the doorway, case in hand, trembling with anxiety. "CanIcomein? I know I'm in your hair. You have short, tidy hair and I take a lot of accommodating but… but…."

"It's fine! It's always fine." Nick stood back expansively and the blutbad lunged through into the lounge. "What's up?"

It took Monroe a moment to shift back to normal form as he paced, and took Nick two or three laps of the couch to catch up with him and gently remove the case from his white knuckles. "Eddie, what happened?"

"I can't take it any more."

"Take what? Did you row with Rosalie?"

"No… we're essentially ok, I think. She's a little upset that I didn't warm to the 'wonderful people' she brought back from the conference, but no actual rows."

Nick felt that beers would go down well, and proffered one. "Uh… Peroni?"

"Lifesaver! Thank you."

"So these people, are they wesen?"

"Are they ever! They're hippy Texan unhuhigbisonen and they can't stay still for two seconds. They're all over at mine because the shop's under renovation and they are driving me _absolutely crazy_. I swear, if I didn't get out of there, I'd pull them limb from limb." Monroe took an uncharacteristically aggressive swig from his beer and nearly finished it. Nick waited for him to go on.

"I'm genuinely afraid I'm going to maim one of them. I can't make a coffee without one of them following me into the kitchen and loitering, and just …staring at stuff. And they don't even say anything! They just mope about with their dreadful shirts and 60s hair and those god-awful glasses that they think look so retro cool, and—"

Nick felt his head spinning. "Back up a little. What did you say they were? And how many are we talking about?"

"FOUR! Oh, sorry man, didn't mean to roar. Let me just clean that up…"

"I've got it." Nick got a cloth from the kitchen and wiped the beer off his legs. "You were saying? Unruly biss-something."

"Un-ruh-ig bison. It's a kind of particularly restless bison spirit but man, these guys take it to the extreme. Rosalie said she brought them back 'cause she can give them something for the hyperactivity. It's only a couple of days till the tablets kick in, but until then, bolthole urgently needed. Nick, stop smirking."

He tried, he really tried but the ridiculousness of the situation hit him quite hard at the end of a long day and the mental image of Monroe trying to shoo listless bison out of his kitchen wouldn't leave him alone. He turned his head and tried to stifle rising giggles against his knuckles. This helped not one tiny bit and he resorted to shoving his face into a couch cushion.

"What is it?"

God, he was starting to hiccup now. "You've actually…. got a home where the buffalo roam?"

"Nick, it's not funny!"

"I'm…s..sorry…"

"Do you mind if I make a snack while you laugh it up? Cause you know, all this near-murder makes me peckish. It's not just the 'roaming', get a grip, Grimm! It's _not_ just the roaming. It's the goddamn poetry. They are really, really bad poets, but Rosalie seems to love them, which makes me concerned for her mental health. Check out the anthology in the front of my case. Bottom pocket."

Nick clambered off the couch, set the oven to 200 since Monroe had found the pizzas, and grabbed some more beers. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. Share the misery, brother. I had to sit still looking grave for half an hour while that shit was recited at me."

He grabbed the slender book and clambered back onto the couch with it. It was serious wrist-slitting stuff. Monroe was not kidding. Death, doom, despair, destruction… bus smashes, hangings, serious rollerblade accidents (?) plagues… disaster, devastion, dread, boat sinking, hypothermia, losing a loved one—

He snapped the book shut, aware of breathing a little too quickly. Monroe handed him his beer.

"Dude, you ok?"

Nick managed a kind of crooked smile as he took the bottle. "I'm on page six and it's already twelve dead and nine wounded."

"Seriously, you look like someone just walked over your grave."

"Boat poem. I feel the same about boats as you do about mice."

Monroe frowned. "Really? Cause I had you down as a strictly no-phobias kind of guy."

Nick could still see his Pop disappearing into the distance for the last time on the back of the _Heart of the Lake_ and a muscle twitched in his jaw. "Achilles… h-heel." And that was it – the slight hysterical laugh started by the roaming buffalo leapt to the other end of the emotional spectrum and he was suddenly sobbing into his forearm, wondering what the hell his parents would make of him slumped on his couch, accepting shoulder-grabbing, neck-rubbing and tissue-passing from a slightly alarmed Blutbad.

He found, as he let things go, that he didn't really give a crap. Monroe had acted as his family long before his mom showed up and would continue to be his family long after he got used to having his mom back in his life. As for his dad…. still an unknown quantity whose face he could no longer properly remember.

**X x X**

**One last part to come! I'm not very good at predicting how long things are going to be. Hmm. Oh well, I do love to get lost in a story….. some answers coming.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow guys – thanks for all the great reviews! Had a really rough week at home (hence being rather faster with updates than usual) so it was so nice this morning to check into my email and see such an encouraging response.**

**As very kindly instructed by some of you, I have now given up anticipating when a story is ending, lol. So here's the next bit. Hope you enjoy and that you take the bromance+ bits in the good humour intended. They are still firmly **_**friends **_**but I couldn't resist a bit of fun. There's a plot purpose in there somewhere….**

**X x X**

Nick was on the phone when Monroe trotted down from the shower and he was surprised to see his friend up and looking relatively bright-eyed, given the draining emotional outpouring of the previous night. Whatever Nick had just said, the voice at the other end, definitively female, was giggling like a mad thing. Nick jerked his head to the phone and mumbled into the receiver.

"He's here – hang on." Mouthed 'Rosie for you', and politely stepped away from the call, handing the receiver over.

"Hi honey, how're the bison?"

"Missing you."

Eh? "Missing me?"

"Oh yeah, they all think you're the best thing since… electric cars. No one has _ever_ sat through their 'dark reflections of a nomadic mind' like you did yesterday." Rosie giggled, but dropped the level of her voice slightly. "I was mentally reaching for the paracetamol and vodka after the second poem. Look, the tablets I gave them seem to be working really well and I'm getting much less good at pretending to enjoy their poetry, so after a few more philistinic comments they'll probably be gone by this afternoon."

Relief washed through him. _This_ was the woman he knew and loved – not some suckee into a poetry cult. "I cannot tell you how good it is to have you back."

"I didn't go far, honey. How's Nick? Been looking after you?"

"Yeah. He's had some difficult developments recently, but…I'll tell you about that later. Look, he and I are going out to see a boat today—" Nick, halfway through a bowl of cheerios, whipped his head up and gave him a milky, grateful smile that made him look like a four-year-old and Monroe had to turn his back so as not to chuckle down the phone. "Sorry, lost my thread. We're going to see this boat, but I'll be back later. Assume I'm coming home tonight, but if the bison are still around…"

"I'll give you a heads-up, don't worry. Give Nick my love."

They swapped embarrassing phone smooches – well, it would've been embarrassing in front of anyone but Nick, then he finally hung up.

"You'd really come with me?"

"Course. How else am I going to politely evade twenty pages of rhyming mayhem? Ok, get some clothes on and we'll hit the road."

"I'm dressed."

"You are wearing nowhere near enough clothes. I happen to know that all the gas station workers between here and Pilot Rock are female, and I don't wish to be getting my gas from women with the concentration power of a blob of jam when they're totting up the bill."

"Okay, so some of them are a few additives short of a froot loop, but what's that got to do with my clothes?"

Monroe smacked his hand across his face. "Get some jeans and a short-sleeved shirt and get in the car, young Nicholas. We need to talk."

Nick was unusually cooperative and hopped in the passenger seat, decently clad. Monroe noted his nonagenarian fan club give them both a slightly disappointed wave as they drove away. How to bring this up without sounding like the slightly jealous older brother? He pushed the car up to 50, joined the I5 slipway and shot into the forestry region where the shade cooled the car nicely.

"Right, Nick, I've noticed some changes lately. I know you're working hard on getting fit and strong but you're either being weirdly effective, or something is happening to you."

"I've just built up a little. Nothing weird about that."

"I timed your run yesterday. 3 miles in 20 minutes. And I checked your pedometer. You didn't cut any corners."

Nick grinned. "I'm getting quite proud of that."

"And you've gained, what, eight to ten pounds in muscle tone in five weeks?"

"The forest makes a good gym. Hey look, after that pneumonia episode I made a promise to myself to sort my ass out and that's what I'm trying to do."

"And that's all very admirable, it's just that… it's kind of quick. And you're clearly sending off all manners of pheromones because whenever you're near a woman, your presence creates a vacuum into which they babble. Even Rosie. She was giggling on the phone this morning. Threats at gunpoint can't get her to smile before eight, usually."

Nick looked vaguely hurt. "I'm not trying to do anything funny, you know. You and Rosie are… a pair."

"I know, I know. None of this is accusation. I think you just need to be aware that something is happening to you."

"I'm not convinced something is happening to me!"

Monroe tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The conversation did indeed seem to be going in the direction of the jealous older brother. "Ok, fine. You up for a bet?"

"Uh…"

"We're going to head for the Pine Copse gas station. If you can get in, get snacks and gas and come out with the right change _after an intelligent conversation_, I'll shut up. If the checkout girl turns into a noodle, I'll send the bison round to your place to roam around for a while."

"Don't you _dare_!"

"Not feeling confident?"

Nick went oddly quiet as they pulled in.

**X x X**

Nick buckled up, flaming with embarrassment and shoving the snacks on the floor of the shotgun seat. "Do we have to count that one?"

"Yes."

"How do we know the kid wasn't just deflecting some wild passion for a bearded older man?"

Monroe smirked wickedly. "Don't be utterly ridiculous. He didn't ask for my number, he asked for yours. And it's kinda your fault for raising the odds by taking your shirt off before you went in."

"It's hot! I'm wearing a teeshirt!"

"Some people don't ask for much."

Nick shuddered. Not because the kid was a guy, or because he was young, but simply because…

"If you don't like the idea of people mentally undressing you while you're talking to them, wear more layers. Give them more work to do."

"Fine. Consider me told." Nick lowered the window a crack and let the breeze cool his face off as they shot off back into the forest. They should be there in another half hour or so. With Monroe, in daylight, it all seemed much less intimidating. Everything looked completely different in the sunlight. And if he was honest with himself, he was feeling different these days, too. Up and down, but weirdly robust. Apart from the difficult women in his life. He had noticed people reacting differently towards him recently but had absolutely no idea how to bring it up without sounding like a self-loving prick. Well, at least as far as the positive experiences went, like the Escher sisters keeping an eye on him since Juliette left, or the girl at the corner shop giving him an extra smile and complimentary beer to go with his shopping. On the other hand, there were reactions like those of Rabe's…

"Monroe, do I have silver eyes?"

Monroe flashed him a startled glance then jerked it back to the road to keep a safe distance from the truck in front. "Nick, there is such thing as leading up to a topic, you know?"

"You seem to know exactly what I'm talking about, though."

"Dare I ask what's brought this question about?"

Nick told him about Rabe's insane reaction to his call and the absolute panic that the sound of his voice had brought about. "And that was on the phone, it wasn't even like I just showed up at his office."

"In some ways, it's actually a timely question. When a Grimm is after the truth, or is angry – at least this appears to be the case with you – there's this steely, non-compromising gleam that sets off a whole series of emotions that makes you feel... naked, I suppose. When you're not about to leave a topic alone, we – wesen, can feel it. It's like being mentally undressed. At some point, whatever we've done that's wrong is going to be exposed. There's this great big sense of impending doom that you're going to paint our wrongdoings across the wall and then hang us up to dry next to them so everyone can see our crimes. The whole 'silver' thing is… it's like a euphemism. A short-cut phrase for that emotion. You might get it a lot. You're a cop. Going after the truth is what you do."

Nick remembered Monroe's face after the mouse attack after he'd shot into the garden after an attacker that wasn't there. He'd thought Monroe was having a cardiac arrest. "Did I do 'the eyes' at you yesterday? When I was mad?"

"Yes. But then, having known you for a year, I know you're not going to turn me inside out and make a mural out of my life crimes, so …. Not really an issue."

"But with Rabe… I didn't even introduce myself. I just said I wanted to ask him a few questions about—"

"That'll do it. Frank Rabe has about six different forms of tax avoidance scheme in operation at any one time. Note the term 'avoidance', not 'evasion'. The moment you spoke to him, you probably reduced him to a shrivelled, empty little money bag on his office chair. You bring our fears to the surface as well as our wrongs."

Nick sighed, wondering if he could go through life striking mortal dread into people. "He said I curled his fur."

"He was probably being polite." Monroe pulled off the main road onto a dirt track at the roundabout. _His_ satnav was polite and decorous. It even said please. Nick made a mental note of of its make and model numbers. While his friend was still being relaxed – relatively – and open about the whole thing, Nick tried him with one more.

"What do you fear when I give you…. The 'eyes'?"

"Depends which set of eyes we're talking about. If it's the puppydog eyes, I fear bankruptcy. 'Oh Monroe, get me some fiercely expensive Skasenblaase! I'll pay you back in 2014. Monroe, can you grab me a Chinese on your way home?'"

"Be serious."

"Ok, when you give me _those_ eyes, I fear you being mad at me."

"I might get mad at you if you send the bison round to my place."

"A bet's a bet! You're not getting out of it with threats. Right… we're here. Where's your papers?"

**X x X**

They walked to the end of the pier and stared out to the circle of scrubland in pilot lake. Monroe gazed at the line of numbers along the opposite dock and finally spotted, albeit rusty and coated in green algae, a white 14 against a blue plate. The 'tug' next to it was huge, two decked with a separate pilot enclosure. He felt a little excited just looking at it. Sure it was a little dilapidated, but so long as it was seaworthy... God, Nick could be the menace of the waterways in this thing! He glanced left, where his buddy stood uncharacteristically quiet, swallowing hard.  
Monroe cleared his throat. "So, that's the Heart of the Lake?"

"Yep."

"It's kind of a romantic name, given your parentage."

"My dad used to call it 'Cirrhosis of the River.'"

Monroe laughed. "That's a little harsh. I mean sure, it's not pretty, but it's not diseased, either. You could throw some serious weight around in this thing. Right, we've got to get over. Any guidance in the infamous annex A as to how we do that?"

"Nope."

"Course not. Heaven forbid your family might make anything easy for you!"

"My thoughts exactly."

Nick looked kind of lost and for a moment, Monroe felt like giving him a hug. Instead, he tried to keep Nick focussed on the practical stuff so he didn't unravel again. Not that it upset him having to spend an hour consoling an abruptly weeping Grimm, but the sheer force of it had been a little distressing. He didn't like the idea of Nick having held a whole bunch of loneliness inside all that time. He remembered how that felt. In so many ways, Rosalee had cured his life. Even if weirdness kept him on his toes far more than he'd like. Even Nick's first night after Juliette left hadn't been that... rending. More like a gentle, hopeless resignation on Nick's part; a desperate attempt on his own part to make and keep light conversation going."

Monroe clapped Nick lightly on the back. God he was warm. "Shall we go see if there's a dock master or anything out here?"

"Good plan. Oh hang on - there's someone crashing about on that yacht, c'mon."

He followed the direction of Nick's pointed finger, looked for the non-existent yacht, and instead jogged behind Nick towards a…dinghy, which was optimistically named 'Sea Warrior'. The Cap'n of the boat was an unsteady, bearded ginger guy in his early fifties, staggering around his deck and apparently looking for something while caterwauling along to the first sung chorus of 'Zadok the Priest' blasting from his classic radio. In the privacy of his boat, the empty yard and with the stirring of the choral heights, the guy morphed to his natural essence form – a Rissfleich.

Monroe groaned inwardly. Why, if they had to deal with wesen today on top of everything else, could they not stumble on something more calm and dependable like a Maushertz? Rissfleichen were the piss-heads of the cat world. He was relieved to see Nick hang back a little, waiting for him, rather than thunder over and introduce himself. Nick was still unsettled by the presence of the tug, likely to do 'the eyes' and Rissfleichen were notoriously twitchy. He drew level with Nick, who murmured at him out of the corner of his mouth.

"Is that a drunk tiger?"

"Uh… yeah. Look Nick, can I handle this one? He might be a little less startled by me." Nick's eyes had the steely gleam again and Monroe had a quick hot flush. He needed less of the eyes, however handsome they were. _Handsome? Where did that come from? _"Nick – you got any shades?"

"I think so – in the car. Why?"

"Call it an experiment. I want to see if obscuring your…searching gaze also dampens the Grimm effect. Rissfleichen startle easily."

Nick shrugged, but interestedly so. "I don't know why that never occurred to me. Ok. Hang on…" He was back in moments, wearing aviator shades, and with an absolute thump of shocking realisation, Monroe looked at his friend and realised he was becoming an alpha, standing there all broad-shouldered and brooding, his bigger chest rising and falling gently under his tee-shirt –

_WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON? _Monroe trotted smartly away from Nick and the pulsing cloud of pheromones he was exuding. He needed to speak to Rosalee about this. Nick clearly needed HRT or …something. He shook his head clear of unwanted bromantic thoughts and approached the Rissfleich, gingerly. "Uh, good morning. Would you mind giving us a lift to berth 14?"

Rheumy eyes fixed his. "B-berf 14?"

"Yeah, it's right over there." He pointed helpfully.

"Know where izzis. Is my dock. That's Kessler's boat. Sweet lady. Always used to bring me whisky."

Monroe leant back slightly from the swaying Rissfleich: from the look and smell of him, he wasn't having so much difficulty getting his own whisky these days. Marie Kessler? Sweet lady? Monroe thought not. Nick was suddenly back beside him, asking questions about his aunt, and Monroe knew by proxy that Nick's emotions were running high because he suddenly felt the urge to peel Nick's teeshirt off and fling it into the lake. He clutched his head, his very _straight_ head, thank you, and clambered into the back of the boat, thinking strenuously of unsexy things like shopping baskets, tax returns….

"Hey, whaddya doing?"

"That's Marie's nephew, and we are requisitioning this boat."

The Rissfleich squinted. "Marie's nephew, eh? Wow. Didn't someone get all big and grown up? Hop in, son."

Nick hopped in at the pilot end and shot Monroe a concerned look as the Rissfleich had a few goes at getting the key into the ignition. He walked down the boat towards him and Monroe shifted onto the back ledge, holding the flagpole for balance, trying to keep some safe distance from his buddy. The engine started and the pissed cat swung the boat round awkwardly, adding to his prized collection of dents. Nick mouthed at him.

_Is this safe?_

_It's just a short distance._

_What is he?_

_Rissfleich. A rare Indian Tiger-wesen, usually cross bred. Very poor navigators, usually alcoholic, usually found in Nepal. _Monroe supplemented the lip enunciation with improvised sign-language, stymied only by the difficulties of miming 'Nepal' in any meaningful way. But he was pretty impressed that Nick seemed to get most of it. He frowned, furrowing his brow rather gorgeously – _AGHHHHHHH –_ confusion coming off him in great, warm, cuddly waves.

_How does an Indian, confused, alcoholic tiger end up in Nepal? Or Portland, for that matter?_

_Dude! Question asked, question answered! I'm not a goddamn encyclopaedia!_

Nick flinched. _Ok, ok! You alright? You're grabbing your head a little—_

The Rissfleich stumbled turning to port and went down on the floor with the wheel, taking slamming the boat into the dock and him off the back of the boat. In the split second before he hit the water, Monroe saw Nick lunging for his hand, all urgent and fuzzy-tummied as his teeshirt rode up, and then he was surrounded by coldness and algae.

He'd never been so glad for an ice bath in his life. Even if he couldn't swim.


	5. Chapter 5

**Guys, I am warmly pink, happy and much rejuvenated by your really kind comments. I must say, I've had a blast writing this, particularly with all the encouragement, and I'm going to be gutted when I actually hammer out the last lines! Thanks for following, and particularly for reviewing. It means a very great deal to me. **

**X x X**

"Monroe!" Nick couldn't see any movement beneath the water and leapt over to turn the engine off before his friend could get seriously hurt. He ripped off his teeshirt and upended the contents of his jeans while trying to remove his shoes with heels and toes. He looked over the side again and Monroe briefly flailed greenly at the surface before sinking again in a lather of panic. Nick dived in.

The water bit him, it was so cold, and he fought against panic, memories of being washed down a creek. This water was still. He could swim-ish. He'd be fine. He took a deep breath and pushed down, finding Monroe's shirt floating beneath the top layer of pond week. He descended in front of his friend, managed to get an arm around his back and hauled him to the surface, where Monroe thrashed wildly, trying to push him away.

"God's sake Monroe!" Nick swum behind him, trying to get a hold before he sunk again. He got a grip under Monroe's armpits and hung on grimly while frantically treading water. "Quit struggling, will you? It's like trying to float a fucking octopus!"

"Nick! Nick?"

"Yeah, me. Can you swim?"

"No!"

"Right. Fine. I'm going to pull you towards the boat. Kick gently. No – kick the _water_, not me!"

Monroe twisted round slightly and peered at him blearily. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," he snapped, then rolled his eyes at himself. "Ok, so I'm a little mad, but that's just cause I hate being in the water. Let's just get out. Put your foot in my hands, I'll give you a lift up."

His friend seemed to wake up a little bit, looked him up and down like he'd only just seen him, then chuckled. "Oh thank God…"

"Oh, you're with me now? Good! Give me your foot—"

"Thank god." Monroe coughed and spluttered, pointing slightly drunkenly. "Good news - It doesn't affect me when you're wet."

Nick felt that this was an ungracious comment from someone whose soggy butt he'd just saved. "Did you hit your head or something? I don't give a crap whether you're affected by my wetness or not!"

"No, No! I meant—"

Nick ducked under, caught Monroe's boot in his linked hands and thrust him upwards to get him overboard, hurling the Blutbad into the boat. He heard and felt the crash of Monroe's landing on the deck, even under water. Oops. He scrambled up after Monroe and peeled his bruised pal off the planks. "I don't know where that came from – I was just trying to give you a foot up!"

Monroe's sudden rearrival onboard wasn't lost on the Rissfleich, who took one look at Nick, shadeless, and took a deep breath, the _Gri- _forming clearly on his lips.

"DON'T EVEN FUCKING THINK OF IT!" Nick roared at him. "Drive us unharmed to berth 14 and you might yet live!"

The Cap'n sobered abruptly, got to work, and Nick helped Monroe onto one of the seats along the side of the dinghy.

"I _really_ don't know what happened there, I'm so sorry."

"I do," Monroe muttered. "As I was about to explain before you…._flung_ me, your emotions are driving your hormones. And your biceps, clearly. Look, when you get really emotional, I feel it and it affects me in ways so….awkward that I can't begin to describe them."

"What do you mean? What awkward ways?"

"No, really, I'm _not_ going to begin to describe them. Let me put it this way, the vibes you're giving out are really, powerfully violent. But for whatever reason, your pheromones don't work when you're wet. I'm not feeling the lov—the VIBE! I'm not feeling the vibe as intensely as I was a few moments ago, so for now…. Normal service resumed."

"Oh. Good." Nick felt unstable and weird. "Is this an extension of the silver eye thing?"

"That's as good as an excuse as any right now, I have to say. Now listen." Monroe put his hands on Nick's shoulders. "How are you feeling now?"

"Ok, I think. Calm." Monroe was still staring at him intently from two inches away. Nick leant back a little. "A little crowded, maybe, but calm."

"Right. Yes, I feel that too. It's good. But I need to warn you, that next time you flip out and… you're dry… I am going to have to leap on you for both our sakes."

"Leap on me? What, you're going to go Blutbad on me?"

"Buddy, I'm going to knock you out. Just so you know." Monroe shook water out of his hair and took the wheel of the boat from the astonished Rissfleich. "Let's get over to the tug. I think it's important that we find that 'book' and work out what the _hell_ is going on with you."

**X x X**

Nick watched Monroe guide the boat expertly off the dock and glide it out into the wider waters towards Marine 2. The sun warmed him sufficiently from the waist up to flick dried bits of lake weed off him but he couldn't stop the shivers as they approached the tug. Monroe's alongside docking was impeccable, allowing him to leap over the side onto the old deck. He heard Monroe address the Rissfleich sternly as he clambered over the side.

"You STAY. Even if we find the keys for this thing, we might not be able to drive it back. So no swanning off, or I'll set the Grimm on you. Capisce?"

The Rissfleich nodded rapidly and sat stock still.

Nick leant over to give him a hand, and lifted the Blutbad easily over the side of the boat. Not really quite sure how that happened. Unless Monroe had lost 40lb in invisible places, hauling his buddy anywhere usually involved both arms and a near-slipped disc.

"Wow. Someone _has_ been working out," Monroe muttered, and headed up to the pilot's enclosure where he felt 'safer'. "I'll look for keys – you look for books. And if you start feeling stressed, count to ten."

Nick tried to remember where his mom said the book was stowed: something about boxes at the rear, life jackets… he pulled the flap seats up and checked all of them, his search becoming more frenzied until his fingers closed around something chunky. Chocolate-box thick, solid, matt cover… he snatched it out in excitement then turned it over in horror in his hands to see WB Yeats' morose features glaring at him from the cover.

"No….please!"

He almost fell back into the lifejacket boxes under the seats as he bent over, turfing everything out, but there was nothing but that first edition. He felt his pulse rocket. If this was going to turn into some kind of _fucking_ treasure hunt…

"Ni-ick," Monroe said warningly, but without turning round, and Nick remembered the threat of clouting. He counted to ten in his head. Right, so maybe there was something tucked away _in _the book. He turned it upside down and thumbed the pages rapidly. Nothing fell out. He turned to the first page, and inside the cover, in pencil, was a written cipher, followed by his birth date, and some insane kind of masonic grid. So now he had to go through all this deciphering shit before getting close to—

He wanted to scream, so he did, head back, arms out, scaring flocks of Flox from the trees and scattering Cranes across the lake. Then started hurling the lifejackets out on the bank in a rage. He was onto his third when he spotted Monroe on hand and knees on the deck by the pilot's enclosure, one hand urgently cupping his crotch, the other, holding his upper body weight. He didn't recollect chucking anything his friend's way that would smack him in the groin, but before he could enquire, Monroe peeled himself upright, grabbed the boathook and advanced on him both determinedly and apologetically, clearly braced to knock him out, as promised.

"Monroe, put that….thing down."

"I did warn you…" His friend swallowed hard. "Like I said, I _feel _your emotions rather keenly, and if you're going to give these wild, visceral Grimm screams…"

"Fine! No wild ….whatever… Grimm screams! Don't hit me with that thing—"

"Hey look!"

Nick was completely thrown by Monroe's less homicidal tone of voice. "Look where?"

"Life jacket – bottom of. Don't chuck the one you have in your hand."

Monroe's urgency made him snap his grip back round the jacket and he looked down to see what the fuss was. There was an envelope taped to it.

_**Nick, read me discreetly. Dad.**_

A wild bolt of joy shot through him, encouraging Monroe to stagger cross-legged to the pilot's enclosure, muttering something about 'checking the flotation'. Nick stared at the letter like it was going to blow up. He had nothing, _nothing_ else that had belonged to his dad. Almost arthritically, he lowered himself down on the floor, clutching the envelope. It wasn't stuck down, just tucked. He turned it over cautiously and laughed at what was on the other side.

_**No, I'm not going to blow up.**_

Nick unfolded it, and read.

**X x X**

_Hey kiddo_

_Firstly, let me say that this affectionate name stands whether you are a child of 14 (and I hope the hell not) or the District Attorney of New Jersey. Bridle you may, but I'm no longer here for you to throw a shoe at. Good thing too – your aim was always eerily good._

_If you're reading this, it means that our best laid plans went badly wrong. For this, I'm eternally sorry and I can tell you in advance there is a lot of tossing and turning going on in this grave because I update this monthly and I __know__ I haven't had the chance to talk to you about the serious stuff in life yet._

_Long story short, there's a gene that runs in the male Grimm line and there's a high possibility that you have it. You're the son of two Grimms. This does not happen often. Your grandfather (Dieter) was as well, and exhibited all the physical aspects of your ancestors: superhuman, protective, aggressive, driven. The gene skips generations and I know it skipped me. While I may see wesen naked as they stand, as you will as you get older – if that hasn't started already – I merely find it vaguely weird and fine to live with, so long as no-one points something dangerous in my direction. _

_I have, as your aunt so succinctly puts it "all the war instinct of a teaspoon". This is not meant as a compliment, but I'll take it. There's a phrase in the more refined part of the wesen world – 'wieder'. It almost means 'tame'. I'll be frank – it's a term usually employed as an insult – a 'big girl's blouse' kind of translation. But I don't care. I didn't choose this. I'm a wieder Grimm, if you like. The women in this family are dangerous enough. They need no help from me. Grimms are a matriarchal breed. Sorry buddy, but we are. The men carry the genetic abilities and some (like your Grandpa) are indeed are strong and wild characters, but the female of the species display the mild psychopathy. It's our job to rein them in when they turn into nutjobs._

_I'm swinging dangerously towards the possibility of Kelly and Marie finding this and killing me themselves or even just desecrating my grave, so quickly back to the point. There have been Grimms long before the public relations nightmare known as The Brothers Grimm. We go back millennia, just like most mammals, and we are the oldest wesen. Grimms, Royals, Lowen, Blutbad, Hexens – they are all descended from the Zauberen. No doubt your Mom's coded book and Marie's selection of relaxing literature will set out the historical and political importance of you __potentially__ being a Zauberer rather than a Grimm (depending on your genetics), but that's all the academic stuff, and they'll have that covered, between them. My concern is that you learn to be a Grimm on a day to day basis and be happy, whether you turn out to be an uber-Grimm, normal Grimm or whatever. This is the stuff you need to know. Listen up._

Nick felt a great wave of relief. Did this mean that he didn't have to cipher the whole damn book to find out what the hell was wrong with him? He read on.

_One. Learn the pack rules. They are on the back of this letter. It is guy code for earning friends and keeping them for life. It has nothing to do with being a Grimm – it has everything to do with __not being a hermit__. Ideally you'll know the pack rules off the top of your head while reading this and be thinking 'Duh, I know all this stuff'. I hope so. If not, it's because you were a kid when I died, and for that… I am impossibly sorry. You forgave us our absences far more than we could ever deserve and I'm sorry that in so many ways my lifestyle held me back from being there for you as much as I wanted to be. I love you, kiddo. I will always be above you, smacking this life's bullies (and other total prunes) upside the head._

Nick sucked in air and wiped his face dry with his forearm. He could now hear his Dad's voice. Monroe had his back to him, lurching ludicrously at the wheel, pretending to drive the tug at impossible speeds across the lake, taking some vicious turns as he did so.

_Two. With Grimms, the female of the species has a protective instinct so strong that maternal notions tend to get pushed out. They always play the long game. Your mom has problems with this. Whatever may happen, please don't think badly of her. She finds it hard to balance the need to defend attacks on the family home with basic stuff like birthday cards. She loves you more than she can properly express, and would kill or die to protect you. _

_That said - (three) – pick your battles. Life with a female Grimm, while rewarding in many ways, is really not very relaxing. Decide the issues where you will not be budged and stick to them. They will listen eventually. You may be covered in cobwebs and have an 80-foot beard when they do, but that day will come._

_Four. Wild and mild are not mutually exclusive, whatever Marie says. It will do you no harm at all to let people underestimate you….pretty much most of the time. Save your temper for when you actually need it._

_Five. Female Grimms are born to lead, drive and protect. They have trouble with letting people into their circle and because of this, they don't seem to appreciate the value of allies. Allies are everything, Nick. You must go through life wearing your heart on your sleeve. Don't be afraid to get burned. Keep your friends close (hence the pack rules) and your enemies at the other end of several football pitches, if you can manage it. Life as a Grimm can be sucky enough – you will need your pack. Life sadly comes with loss. There's no avoiding it. It's better to have and lose than not have at all._

_Six. And to this end – love children. They teach you about people in their purest form. They're messy, exasperating, confusing and completely wonderful. As you were. You never hit your bullies back. You just quietly buried their toys. If you are not lucky enough to have a couple of little nightmares of your own (see above for handling daughters – and line up a strong godmother), then take care of your friends' kids. It's one of life's best experiences. And finally…._

_Seventh, and most importantly, the "thirty-five year rule". _

_Look, thirty-five years isn't set in stone, but it's the average age at which male Grimms enter the 'second puberty', as Burkhardts call it. Depending on your level of fitness, it can kick off at 32 or 38. But women like a steady average, hence the 35-year rule. Long story short, you'll go through a transitional phase where you grow into your full 'Grimm'. At the end of this weird stage in your life, you'll emerge in a physical state where you can take pretty much anything that's thrown at you, so long as you have hope. The hope aspect is, again, a Burkhardt (male!) interpretation of events, and not something you'll find mentioned much in your Mom's obliquely disguised guidance (probably ciphered in some godawful book) or in Kessler's cheerful tomes. It can start early if you're already pretty fit, or maybe a lot later, if by some sad incidence you happen to be a couch potato. But the transition can take a while to get through. If you're on good physical form, about six months. If you're a slouch, a couple of years. Nick – if you're a slouch – get fit, please. Take it from Dad, it makes your life easier. _

_Some stuff to look out for. Firstly, keep an eye on your pain threshold. Remember when I kicked our shitty dot matrix printer and I was limping for a month? Well…. It took me a month to realise I broke my foot. I was 33 then, you 8. This situation escalates. Keep an eye on it. _

Nick blinked. Ok, so he'd started the transition – early. Very early. Rosie had picked up the pain threshold thing while treating him for pneumonia, clever girl. She was definitely first in line for the 'Strong Godmother' role.

_Second, wild mood swings and sudden bursts of strength. Not much fun: they're difficult to keep to yourself. There's some stuff that only a father can explain to his son, so here it is, and you won't like it. Your emotions will drive your hormones. Your hormones will 'drive' everyone else, because you will become, like it or not, the local randy-magnet. So, unless you know a really good apothecary (I recommend John Calvert on the New York East side, 'Calvert's spices') this is the basis on which your womenfolk recommend that you closet yourself and generally become a hermit. They will not enjoy the effect your physical or emotional presence has on others. If you're wondering what the hell I'm talking about, I can only give you one pointed example: during my transition, I was worried about Kelly because she had hurt herself and I couldn't get the worry out of my head. I was angry and tried to hide it. My worry turned itself into pheromones/hormones/male-smell, whatever. I went into the library for homeopathic books, said 'hello' to the librarian on the desk, smiled (as a polite person does), and five minutes later, got half-raped in the historical section. This is the kind of thing you want to avoid. It's standard experience even if you aren't attractive. If you are easy-on-the-eye already, God help you._

_Having said all this, if you can get your emotions and glands under control, the 'magnetism problem' will be the most fun period of your entire life. _

_Third: your voice will break, again. If you've already gone through your first puberty, you'll be relieved to hear that you won't have to go through another year of your voice hitting separate octaves with every syllable. It's not your __audible__ voice that shifts, but your Grimm one – your voice of query and persuasion. Unless you're already spectacularly mild-mannered (like yours truly) you will have to work on making yourself sound as harmless as possible in order to avoid cardiac arrest in wesen during the simplest of conversations. This is a very trying period. I hope you've not grown up to be a tax inspector or something, because you may need to take a sabbatical if you spot any of the other puberty symptoms coming u. I'm about as scary as a flowergirl, but spent about nine months scaring the crap out of people. I recommend Yoga to get to the heart of the 'calmer' you._

_Finally, and almost irrelevantly, as far as I'm concerned, at the end of this, you'll be almost invulnerable. You'll be in a position to take care of a family and protect them from all-comers, hence Kelly's and Marie's obsession with this median '35' magic number. That's the average. You may be ready way before or after this point._

_As I said before, allies are everything – they give you hope, and the hope gives you strength. Kelly and Marie will insist that allies make you vulnerable because you will sacrifice everything to save them, and that there is no good getting attached until you've completed the Grimm transition. _

_My advice? __Get attached__. It's the best thing in the world. In the event of a threat to an ally – sacrifice everything. You will be saved. Your own body will save you because (unless you actually get yourself killed, which is hard) those you help will be there to return the favour and watch over you. Your grandfather was shot five times and survived six reaper attacks because there was always someone there to hold his hand and say 'thanks'. He died cheerfully of a peanut allergy at a barbeque, aged 73, surrounded by loving family (and many grandchildren). Draw your own conclusions._

_Nick – you've always been an unbelievably determined kid. I want you to take your Grimm abilities as little or as far as you want to, or feel able to, but don't let go of what you are. Your moral compass is finely tuned, but fragile. Don't drop it. There is a war coming – that's inevitable. People will want your power on their side. Do not feel morally obliged to wade in there just because you have the resources and the ability. There's a lot to be said for 'blessed are the peacemakers' and if you do not feel it expedient to spend the family inheritance on raising arms and getting an army together, don't do it. I trust your judgement._

_No doubt you've been left the manky old boat. It can be useful, maybe keep it in the family (pack rules!) and don't chuck it away but I can understand if you associate it with long, boring weekends with less-than-fun relatives (sorry, Kesslers. Sensing any familial strain, here?)_

_Anyway, hopefully I get to update this in another month with more useful information as it comes my way. If not, I will always remain your loving father:_

**_Reed "the teaspoon" Neville Burkhardt_**

_PS – what is discussed in the male side of a Grimm family does not necessarily need to be disclosed to the female side of the Grimm family._

_PPS – Yes, I hid this letter from your mom. Some things… a dad has to tell his son direct._


	6. Finale: onwards and upwards

**Ok guys – here we go, final instalment. I've got another story in the pipeline that will keep the puberty in the background for continuity. Will start writing that soon (is all mapped out in shorthand at the mo!) **

**Thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews throughout. I hope you enjoy the ending.**

**X x X**

Nick folded the letter back up carefully and tried to get it in the envelope but it wouldn't go. He felt inside and the tips of his fingers closed around a photo. He fished it out and realised with a bolt of sympathy for his mom why she couldn't spend too much time around him. In the picture, he was sitting on his dad's lap; about three years old, fair-haired, clutching a beachball that obscured all of him from view save his cheeky grin upwards, and slightly possessive arms. He didn't see himself in that kid, but in the guy sitting behind him, sharing a joke with someone out of shot. His father had the same dark hair, grey eyes and a small dimple in his chin, still visible through about three days' shaving neglect. Nick held the Polaroid up to the light, out of his shadow. He wasn't quite in the same league as his dad, but the physical similarities between them were of the Estevez-Sheen/Sutherland ilk.

He stuck the photo in his wallet.

Monroe's hand landed lightly on his shoulder and he looked up to see mild brown eyes gazing down at him.

"I'm taking it, from the lack of scary vibes over here, that this latest correspondence has settled you a bit?"

Nick didn't quite know what to say. He had a piece of his dad and he didn't have to try to remember his face anymore. He was just aware of an incredible sense of inner...peace, like Mount Rushmore had finally tumbled off the back of his shoulders. He pulled himself upright and handed the letter to Monroe. He felt like sharing.

"You read, I'll drive."

"I thought you hated boats?"

"I hate this one." Nick stepped off the Heart of the Lake into the Sea Warrior and felt instantly better. With or without his Dad's letter, there was just something oppressive about the old tug. Reading through the whole letter and replaying paragraphs in his mind, he knew there was nothing broken-spirited about his father at all, which put him on an even keel, but he couldn't break the association he had with the tug and the essentially parentless life he led. Rabe's words kept coming back to him: "You brought yourself up." Well, maybe he had, to an extent, but it was good to know that his father had thought about the incoming weirdness and had tried to talk him through it, so to speak.

The Rissfleich looked up at him protestingly as he took control of the steering wheel, but his gaze held no real conviction. He just looked sad, as if he were about to lose his boat, and was too damn drunk to do anything about it.

"We'll pay you for your time," Nick said mildly. "I've just not much faith in your steering right now."

The redundant captain cheered right up to the point that he flung himself over and gave Nick a bristly, whisky-stinky peck on the cheek. Nick disentangled himself and gently deposited the pissed Rissfleich into the co-pilot's seat. He waited for Monroe to heave himself into the back of the Sea Warrior and find a slightly safer perching point than on their outbound journey, then sent the Warrior back to the main dock.

His steering was nowhere as good as Monroe's, but he pulled them alongside the pier with a respectably tiny jolt and turned the engine off. He retrieved his personals from the floor of the Sea Warrior, picked up his shoes, and tucked forty bucks into the raddled Captain's shirt pocket, getting away before the guy had the opportunity to display any gratitude for the over-pay. Seeing that Monroe was still buried in the letter, he peeled his soaking jeans off and went to sit on the edge of the dock, his legs swinging under the wood planks, letting the sun dry him out a little more.

Eventually he felt that light touch on his shoulder again and glanced aside to find that Monroe, rather touchingly, easing down onto the wood next to him, had his own bad case of rain-face.

"You ok?"

"Dude – _great _letter. More to the point – you're ok, aren't you?"

Nick thought about it. A lot of questions to be answered over the coming weeks, and he still had his mother's ludicrously coded messages to worry about, but yeah – actually, he felt ok. He wiped his face off with his forearm. "Ignoring the whole red-eye thing, actually, I feel better than in ages."

Monroe flashed him a knowing grin. "Well, thank God for that."

Nick winced. "I've been hard work, haven't I?"

"Oh no! No, I'm not that saying that. For God's sake, you've leapt to my rescue twice in two days. It's just that... well, we've both read the letter. Clearly you're going through that 'transition' your dad warned you about. As soon as we get back to Portland, we'll get our mutually favourite pharmacist to knock something up for you to get those... hormones under control. That's kind of urgent."

Nick was rather looking forward to an afternoon of rest. "Is it?"

"Oh, trust me, it is. You're a cop. You have work. You can't go locking yourself away just because you're feeling a bit emotional." Monroe stared out over the lake, fiddling with his sodden shoelaces. "And I can't be throwing you up against one of Rosie's cabinets just 'cause you're feeling a bit pensive, or whatever."

_Say what?_ "Why the hell would you throw me up against a cabinet?"

Monroe blanched. "Did I say that out loud?" He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, man! I _so_ thought I'd got away with this..." Monroe peeled his hands off his face, revealing fuchsia cheeks. "Your dad... half-raped by a librarian, yes? No indication as to what gender that librarian was?"

Companiably, Nick's own complexion raged through flushed to purple as he contemplated this. "It's not...uh... a scenario that I'd uh... So you're saying that it's not just 'chicks' who..."

"Gas station guy, remember?"

"Yeah… Nick swallowed. "So, do we need a codeword or codephrase, or something?"

"What do you mean?"

"So I know when to make myself scarce! Even assuming Rosie can give me something that works, what if I forget to take a dose, or a pill, or whatever, then start thinking about Juliette? I still get great big smacks of sorrow every time I think about her, and if you're going to start picking up on my emotions in... in _that way_, then we need some kind of discreet communication."

"I could just say, 'Nick, go'."

"But you say that when I'm just being a regular ass! I mean something a bit more specific!"

Monroe looked indignant. "This is _not_ a situation I want to be specific about! What do you expect me to say? 'Flee, fair Nicholas, for I am suffering the unfortunate horn'? It's kind of hard to slip into polite conversation!"

"Ok!" Nick held his hands up to lessen the tide of detail. "If Rosie can help me, it may even not be an issue. So let's just... play it by ear."

"Better plan!"

They sat quietly for a while like a pair of sunblushed tomatoes, glowing hotly in the sun. The tension eased, gradually, although Monroe flicked a speculative gaze at him from time to time. Nick was suddenly aware of sitting in his moist boxers and nothing else. "Am I 'safe' right now?"

Monroe looked him up and down, laughed and shrugged. "I was taking your psychological temperature. Ok, you're largely dry, but you're also mentally stable and covered in stinky lakeweed, so yeah – I'd say you're 'safe'. I've got spare clothes in the boot, anyway, so don't worry about that."

Nick was impressed as he stood up and followed Monroe back to the car. "You keep spare clothes in the boot?"

"I never know exactly what kind of...oddness you're going to drag me into, so it seems prudent. Spare clothes, spare tyre, spare high-vis. Spare water cannon…"

"Ha ha!"

They wiped down and re-dressed on opposite sides of the car: Monroe in a cookie monster teeshirt (very dignified) and himself in a dark grey wifebeater and blue jeans. They shared a brief moment of panic as they tried to work out who'd last had the copy of Yeats' until they saw it stuck on the roof of Monroe's banger. Nick popped it onto the back seat and strapped up as Monroe opened the car snacks they'd never gotten round to eating and cracked the bottle of water open. Then Nick's phone rang. Unknown number.

Feeling weirdly rebellious, he hushed Monroe and put the call on speakerphone.

"Hey mom."

"Have you got the book?"

"Good morning Mom, how are you? Not feeling too hounded, I hope? Not stuck up a tree, overly surrounded by Hundjager?"

There was a brief, confused pause on the other end of the line, allowing Nick to keep his voice 'straight' while Monroe stifled his rising chuckles by the simple means of lifting his leg and cramming his kneecap into his mouth.

"Not right now, no. I'm back under cover. So, did you find it?"

_She's just as sweet as I remember,_ Monroe mouthed in between cackles, and went back to his kneecap.

"Yeah. WB Yeats. Nice. You know, it's a good job I didn't get the will _soon_ after Marie died, because that particular volume... not good for a depressed state of mind, is it?"

"It's not the poems you should've been reading. Have you cracked the cipher?"

Last night, this would've had him not just kicking his satnav, but throwing it through the window. Now... well, he had a slightly different perspective.

"I've got what I need for now, thanks."

"And are you going through the transition yet, or not?"

Monroe looked startled, whispered across at him. "Wow. Grimm women.. don't do small talk, do they?"

Nick shrugged. "I think it's safe to say that it's beginning. But I have a question."

"Yes? Got symptoms already?"

Nick didn't feel up to discussing his 'symptoms'. "I'm assured it's a pretty valuable book. If I crack the cipher, write down your basic message, then rub the pencil out, can I sell it? There are various gloomy unruhigbisonen of my friend's acquaintance who might be interested."

Another long pause. "Nicholas Burkhardt, are you cheeking me?"

"Me? No! Would I do that?"

"GOD! You are so like Reed, it's just... ungh.. Look, you got what you need to know, for now. Other stuff – historical stuff, important stuff – I'll talk you through that when I get back. Ok?"

"Look forward to it." This time, he let his voice be a little warmer, and was about to add something softer, but she'd already clicked off. Didn't really matter. He was grinning ear to ear at the prospect of being 'so like Reed, ungh.' And he didn't even mind that she had no intention of talking him through whatever he may have discovered of his transition through her cipher, or that she didn't consider that to be the 'important stuff'. He knew what to expect, now, and he had friends to help him through it. Their Mom-Son relationship... he had time to work on.

**X x X**

They'd passed the Pine Copse garage from the opposite direction by the time Monroe remembered he still had the boat keys and struggled them out of his pocket while driving left-handed. "Sorry, nearly forget to give you these."

Nick was still staring out the window.

"Nick! Boat keys."

"You hang on to those. I've a feeling you might want a second bolt-hole."

Monroe beamed hugely. "You're lending me the boat? I love boats. I mean I know you hate them and it would probably be wise if I learnt to swim, but to me, it's the best way to chill—"

"It's not for lends. It's for keeps."

Monroe pulled over sharply. "You're seriously giving me … what… $90k's worth of boat?"

Nick winked, sending a burst of warmth through Monroe that had nothing to do with the unfortunate horn. "Yours, all yours."

Monroe choked up a little. "Man, I don't know what to say – ah, thanks, obviously! And wow – good friend! But won't it screw up your inheritance? I mean… you need to keep it in the family to get the money, and you might now get the money sooner than you think."

"Monroe, you are family. Let me worry about the money. I'll talk to mom."

Monroe re-started the engine. "Good luck with that."

"Let's just say that this is going to be one of those subjects I'm not budging on."

"Do you mind if I rename it?"

Nick sighed gently. "Remember the part when I said it was yours? Go for it. What did you have in mind?"

"The bane of the Verrat. That appeals to me."

"Might get you shot."

"Nah. Verrat don't like water, they won't go anywhere near the boat."

They sat quietly a little longer, Monroe pondering on his friend's generosity. The difference that another bolt hole would make to his peace of mind – hell, you couldn't put money on it. The letter stuck in his mind, too: it could've been written by Nick for his own son, though he imagined that his buddy would plan the transfer of unpleasant information rather more smoothly than his parents had. But hell, you couldn't choose your family. Not your blood family, at least.

Which reminded him – he needed to get Rosie to call her uncle. Find out exactly what John Calvert had made up for Reed. It could take a couple of days, and it probably wasn't very safe for Nick to go into work….

"Nick, you better call the precinct. Get some leave so we can sort this treatment out. Test it a little. Oh man, you're grinning something wicked. What are you thinking?"

"I thought I'd pop in and ask the Captain myself. Nicely."

"No." Monroe shook his head really vigorously. "Terrible, terrible idea."

"Oh come _on_. If I know Rosalee, she'll have goo available on tap in like, two days, and I have this really…."

"…infantile urge to…?"

"Yeah, ok. So I have an infantile urge to expand the Captain's gamut of facial expressions, which currently runs from A to B."

Monroe thought of the taciturn Captain and laughed. "Yeah, he's got 'concerned' and 'very concerned' down pat. What you trying to add? Panic?"

"Bingo."

He thought very briefly about trying to talk Nick out of it, but he had that snowflake-tortilla expression in his eyes and there was absolutely no point. And he wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall when Renard found things… getting away from him a bit. He took the slipway to Portland south and grinned. "Ok, do what you've got to do, but… can you just turn it on like that? Pardon the phrase."

Nick frowned. "I don't know. I don't know what feeling does what. I don't wanna go, you know, overboard. What were we doing when you first felt, uh, discomfited?"

"Discomfited? Ha!" Monroe frowned, recalled alarm loin stirring just as he'd been observing the beautiful pace of Nick's breathing. "We'd just met the drunk tiger."

"Ok, I was slightly annoyed. We'll need to replicate that, somehow."

"Oh, that's pretty straightforward. We'll get to the side road by the precinct, swap seats, then you can reverse park left round the corner while I give you a running commentary. That should do it."

"You going to be ok, while I'm… getting annoyed?"

"In the name of the cause, I will suck it up. Another really bad phrase, sorry…."

Ten irritable moments later of poor kerb control, noisily and continuously documented by Monroe, Nick steamed out of the car and stomped up the steps of the precinct underground car park, shades on, jacket on but undone. Monroe let a deep breath go, collected himself, and called Rosalie to give her the lay of the land.

She burst into tears.

"Honey, everything will be fine! We'll get through this…"

"No, I'm relieved!" Rosalee sucked in air. "I'm so relieved….I had to get away – I couldn't even _look_ at him without feeling unfaithful. I'm so sorry Monroe; I don't feel about him like that. I love you, I love your silly habits, your—"

"It's ok!" Monroe stemmed her tide gently. "It's ok. I've only had the chance to tell you the half of it. I have…um… very good reason to believe in the completely involuntary response you've been having."

Rosie went quiet on him. Then sounded tetchy. "Does this mean that you also wanted to jump his bones?"

He thought about Nick's feral roar on the Heart of the Lake – it was hugely painful in … that kind of way… and it was so over the top that his conscience was largely clear. "He affected me. Badly. But I mostly wanted to just chuck him in the water. Water dampens his spirits, apparently."

"Did it dampen yours?"

"Why are _we _arguing about this?"

"Sorry. It's dumb, you're right. At least we know what's going on now."

Monroe took a deep breath. "Is that why you went away? To get space between you and Nick?"

"Oh yeah – it was the worst conference _ever_. So many pretentious asses giving two-hour diatribes on the low points in their lives. Couldn't hack it any longer. But it did cool my ardour. That's partly why I brought the bison group home. I thought their incessant negative energy might provide some kind of protective shield, y'know, in case Nick popped by."

Oh God, of course…. Monroe considered: he'd spent hours having depressing poetry poured into his ears, and had gone on to withstand Nick's weeping without the slightest to grab the Grimm and kiss him breathless. "That's a defence tactic worth remembering," he muttered.

They made small talk a little while longer, just catching up. The bison had left, appalled by Rosalee's bland assumption that their deadly rollerblading poem had been written ironically. No, they had assured, they were in dead earnest and it had been an absolute tragedy. Monroe snickered quietly into the phone. And it turned out that Rosie was on good terms with Uncle John, because he fully approved of her refusing to get sucked into the activities of the Lauffer. Nick's meds should be easy enough to put together.

They spent a few shameless moments unable to hang up on each other, before Rosie finally took responsibility with a goodbye smooch.

Monroe settled back in the car seat, waiting for Nick. It was a good day, all told. New boat, new bolt hole. Reclaimed girlfriend. Buffalo roaming a different home. Nick took a while: he dropped happily off to sleep.

**X x X**

Nick sauntered up to the coffee machine behind Renard and Wu, wondering if he could do this with a straight face, if he could do it at all. He fought to remain vaguely annoyed. Would it even work? Wu turned from the kettle, his herbal tea in hand, and looked… sweetly delighted to see him, staring deep into his eyes. He handed Nick the tea he had just made for himself.

"Hey Wu, that's kind. Thank you."

"Definitely grey," Wu mumbled. "With lovely blue bits."

Renard frowned. "Come again?"

"The tea. Earl grey with damson. He likes an exotic cup," Nick lied smoothly. No need for Wu to get all tangled up in this, although the sergeant wasn't really helping himself by toddling away dazedly, glancing over his shoulder in a lovelorn sort of way.

Renard's hands stayed still around the volcanic percolator. "Was there something you wanted, Burkhardt?"

"Can I have a word with you in your office? It's kind of… personal."

"Com- Follow."

Nick did, grinning wickedly, and took a seat opposite the Captain, setting his tea down and stretching.

"Yes? Did you come in here to yawn, or…?"

Nick suppressed a frown. This wasn't looking promising, actually. "You were kind enough to help me with the will. There have been some…complications and I'd like to ask for a little leave. I have this urge to get things sorted out."

Renard flinched on 'urge' (banzai!) and loosened his tie slightly. "Right, you're running a little low on leave, but let me have a look. Let me just… the book is stuffed in my drawers – DRAW! The book's in my draw."

"Sure, I'll wait." Nick scratched absently at the side of his chest, fiendishly catching the bare area under his armpit. Renard fumbled with his keys, breathing hard. "You alright, sir? You're hyperventilating a little."

"It's all good." Renard stabbed the key in, got down on one knee and struggled with the draw as it caught on something. "It's a bit stuck. No, stay there! I can do this."

Nick joined Renard on his side of the desk. "Hey, I've got years of experience with uncooperative drawers. You've just got to be firm with them. Sometimes all they need is a gentle sliding motion."

Renard yanked the draw open and smacked the corner of it against his forehead, making him go from hunkered to flat in seconds. Oh crap – not meant to happen. And he was breathing way too fast. Nick patted the Captain's face nervously, and when this didn't work, he tried some of that purposeful disrobing that Monroe had been so obnoxious about.

He had Renard's tie off, his shirt undone and belt removed by the time his eyes flicked open, wide with stress.

"Forget the books, take the days. I'm fine, just—"

"You just blacked out! I was helping with your airway."

"Burkhardt, there is nothing… wrong… with my airway. Take the days! Go, Nick!"

Nick did his most innocent smile. "Actually, your colour's looking much better, now. Anything I can do while I'm still here?"

"No. Go. Send Wu in on way out."

"Wooing? Whose wooing?"

"SEND _WU IN_, DAMMIT!"

"Ok, I'm going. Thanks for the leave. I'll be in touch."

Nick trotted back down the stairwell, dusting his hands off, job done, chuckling helplessly to himself. His dad's words rung pleasantly in his head: _these could be the most fun days of your life._ God that was fun. In a couple of days, it would be business as usual again and probably with endless pots of goo at his disposal to deal with this whole 'magnetism problem', but until that became available, why not mess around a little?

He cleared his throat, did his jacket up and got his equilibrium back before reaching the car. Monroe was asleep in the driver seat, exhausted. Poor, poor guy. Nick grinned to himself, levered Monroe's seat all the way back down so he could sleep properly, and gave him his jacket.

"Not on my nuts!" Monroe barked from the depths of sleep. Nick took the jacket back. God only knew what he was dreaming about.

So, back to business, but back on ground zero. And definitely onwards and upwards.

**General z – the renard cupboard-slam is for you, lol.**


End file.
